


Ineffable Husbands AU Week

by Estrella3791



Series: Ineffable Husbands AU Week 2020 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Awake the Snake (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Miffed, Blogger AU, Blogger Crowley, Crowley is Sleepy, Crowley is smitten, Female Gabriel (Good Omens), Fluff, Gabriel is Not Good, Grievous Lack of Coffee Knowledge on the part of the author, Hot Chocolate, I'm doing my best, Ineffable Husbands AU Week, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mechanic Crowley, Multi, Online Dating, Technophobe Aziraphale, Tinder, Titanic AU, but make it October, coffee shop AU, major character discorporation, tumblr challenges, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26562028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estrella3791/pseuds/Estrella3791
Summary: Written for the challenge on Tumblr.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Husbands AU Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942321
Comments: 27
Kudos: 71





	1. Coffee Shop AU

**Author's Note:**

> Well, friends, I tried.

“Hello, welcome to Fire and Brimstone Café, what can I get for you?” Crowley says, not looking up from his notepad and fully aware that he’s talking too fast to be really understood but also desperate to move through the line. (He’s never understood why so many people choose to get their morning coffee here. It’s tasty, no question, but the dingy building and sketchy neighborhood would be more than enough to keep Crowley away if he wasn’t desperate for a job.) 

“Um, yes, hello. I have - well, I was wondering - well.”

Crowley looks up and meets the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen and somehow knows, deep down, that he will never be the same, not after laying eyes on this… 

Well, what do you call someone who is round and beautiful and blonde and breathtaking and is wearing a tartan bowtie?

 _An angel,_ Crowley thinks wildly, _he’s an angel._

And the angel’s lips are moving and Crowley, after being thoroughly distracted by them for a moment, forces himself to focus. 

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,” he says, praying that the man (angel) somehow missed the lengthy, longing gaze that had been accidentally fixed upon him. “Been a long morning.”

“Oh, I understand completely,” says the angel, and that _voice_ , his _eyes,_ Crowley can’t do this, he’s _mortal_ , he was not made to withstand gentle crinkly eyes from angels… “I was just wondering if I might get….” 

He trails off, and Crowley bites his tongue to keep himself from saying something silly like _anything, I’ll get you anything, anything you want_.

“Well,” says the angel, leaning in. Crowley leans in, too, without meaning to, enchanted with the way the motion makes him feel like a confidant. “It’s a bit silly, I know, but I am rather partial to hot chocolate.” 

“That’s not silly,” blurts Crowley. 

“Oh, you’re very sweet,” says the angel, inadvertently causing Crowley’s heart to perform some aerial tricks, “but I’m well aware that I’m a bit… oh, eccentric, you might say.”

“‘S not a bad thing,” says Crowley, blurting, again.

The angel smiles, a soft, warm, dazzling thing, and Crowley blinks, momentarily blinded. 

“You’re very kind, my dear.” Crowley’s brain fizzles. “If you would be even kinder - ” and again Crowley bites back the urge to say _anything for you, angel, anything_ \- “would you consider calling out - oh, I’m so very ridiculous - ”

Crowley doesn’t know if it’s the _oh_ or the _ridiculous_ or how flustered the angel is by his own (quite reasonable, Crowley is certain of it) request, but his heart is melting and he wants nothing more than to give the angel a hug.

But he can’t do that, so he just does his best to look encouraging and says, “I’ve heard a lot of ridiculous things, and I can assure you that whatever you’re about to say isn’t actually that ridiculous and I’d like to hear it.”

The angel’s hand flutters to his heart.

“Oh, well, I was going to ask if you could possibly announce a… different drink? Than hot chocolate? When you call my order? It’s just…”

He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze flickers to the pompous pricks that have already come through the line and are now waiting for their orders and harassing Bee and Ligur, and he understands. The angel is worried about their opinions. 

“Soy latte it is, then,” he says, and the angel beams.

“Oh, _thank_ you, dear boy!” he says, like Crowley has changed his life, and Crowley blushes.

“No problem,” he mumbles, finding that he simply cannot bear to look at the angel’s face anymore. The man is so beautiful that it hurts. “Can I have your name?”

“Aziraphale,” says the man.

Crowley looks at him, pen in hand, a little dismayed. He has no idea how to spell that. 

“Like the angel,” says the angel, and Crowley has to fight the urge to burst into hysterical laughter at the irony.

Before he can say, “yes, but how do you spell it,” the angel - Aziraphale - gives him another earth-shattering smile before making his way over to the pompous pricks that he’s apparently here with. Crowley wonders, as he writes ‘soy latte’ on a cup but tells Ligur in an undertone to make a hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles, why Aziraphale is here with them. He clearly doesn’t like them; the full-body flinch when they start laughing about something is proof of that. 

But it’s none of his business, and he knows it, so he watches Aziraphale and thinks about Aziraphale’s eyes and manages to tune into reality just in time to intercept Bee as they head for the counter, hot-chocolate-in-disguise in hand. 

“Can I do this one?” he asks. 

They give him a _look_ that he knows he deserves but he stands resolute, holding out his hands for the cup. 

“Fine,” they snap, but he knows they’re only letting it happen because the shop is busy, and that he’ll be hearing about it later.

“I have a soy latte for Aziraphale,” Crowley announces to the room, and Aziraphale approaches the counter, beaming at him.

“Oh, thank you again, dear boy,” he says, taking the cup.

“Of course,” Crowley mumbles, unable to look directly at him for very long. No one person should be that beautiful. 

“Oh!” says Aziraphale, sounding so flustered that Crowley looks back up at him, despite himself. “What have you written on here?”

“Oh,” says Crowley, feeling himself turning a bright, bright red. “I - er - can’t spell very well, and you said it was an angel, so…”

Aziraphale looks from the scribbled ‘soy latte - angel’ to Crowley.

“But how could you remember if you didn’t write it down?” he asks, sounding genuinely bewildered.

Crowley snorts at the very idea.

“You’re not exactly forgettable,” he says, and then promptly regrets it. 

_Idiot. Who says something like that? Now he thinks you’re -_

“So kind,” says Aziraphale. “You are _so_ kind, Crowley. Thank you.”

Crowley splutters a lot more than he means to. 

“How d’you know my name?” he demands, because addressing the other thing the angel said is completely out of the question.

“It’s on your name tag,” says Aziraphale patiently.

“Oh,” says Crowley.

They stand there and look at each other for a minute, both trying to work up the nerve to say something (and both things would have been remarkably similar, and would have contained the words ‘you’ and ‘again’ and ‘sometime’), and then Bee shouts, “Crowley! Back to the till, _right_ now!” and Crowley has to go.

“Have a good day,” he says hastily.

“You, too,” says Aziraphale to his retreating back, and Crowley spends the rest of the day thinking about fluffy hair and beautiful eyes.


	2. Neighbours AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley doesn't wake up to alarms and Aziraphale gets upset and they both get happy.

Aziraphale considers himself a patient person. He has a fairly stressful job, he has incredibly aggravating bosses, he deals with unpleasant customers on a regular basis. He knows how to take deep breaths, count to ten, save his screams for his pillow. 

But he is teetering on the edge of committing something resembling physical violence.

His neighbor (and good friend), Anthony J. Crowley, works a very early shift on a regular basis. Aziraphale isn’t upset about this. It’s understandable. (Although Crowley’s bosses seem hellish, honestly.)

He sets loud alarms to get himself up on time. Aziraphale understands this, too. The loudness isn’t an issue. 

The issue is that Crowley _doesn’t wake up_. His godforsaken alarms beep and blare for hours on end, sometimes, leaving Aziraphale cranky and irritable and very, very awake, staring at the ceiling and wishing that he wasn’t.

It’s unbearable.

He thinks that if it was later in the day he wouldn’t mind as much. He’d put on some headphones, make some tea, read a book. But it’s - he squints at his bedside clock - _three forty-five in the morning_ , and he’s not feeling so charitable. 

Before he even knows what he’s doing he’s out of bed and banging his fist on Crowley’s door.

“Crowley!” he shouts. “Crowley, wake up and turn your blasted alarm off!”

Nothing. 

“Crowley!” he all but shrieks, and there’s no answer. Out of desperation, irritation, and something else that he’d never admit looks a lot like concern, he tries the doorknob.

It is unlocked.

“You foolish man!” he spouts, opening the door and stepping through into Crowley’s apartment. “Someone could break in and hurt you!”

The alarm keeps blaring. Aziraphale considers the fact that he’s technically breaking and entering, and then considers the fact that it is _three forty-five in the morning_ and Crowley could very possibly be _hurt_ and Aziraphale is _concerned_. (Yes, fine, he’ll admit it.) 

He fumbles his way through the apartment, bumping into chairs and things, and by the time he reaches what he thinks is the hallway to Crowley’s door he hears a muffled groaning.

“Crowley?” he calls. 

“Mbjdfhriaphale?” 

“Yes, it’s me,” says Aziraphale, starting to feel cross. Crowley does not sound injured, just groggy, and that is unacceptable. “Turn your alarm off, for the love of all that is holy!”

“Nbhrag,” says Crowley, and there is a sudden, beautiful rush of silence where the alarm used to be. 

“Why on earth did you not wake up?” demands Aziraphale from his spot in the hallway. (He’s not sure whether going into Crowley’s room would make the situation better or worse.)

“Ssssorry,” slurs Crowley. There is the gentle thump of feet hitting floor, and then the sound of stumbly footsteps. He appears in the doorway of his bedroom and leans a hand against it, rubbing at his face with the other one. “Wha time ‘sit?”

His hair is sticking up in all directions and he has a Queen t-shirt and some red and black plaid pajama pants and he is barefoot and Aziraphale wants very badly to stay upset so that his points will come across, but unfortunately that is very difficult to do when Crowley is looking so… oh, bother it all, he doesn’t want to say adorable but frankly no other word will do.

The scoundrel.

“It is - ” Aziraphale checks his watch and then remembers that he doesn’t wear it to bed and he didn’t put it on before he huffed his way over here and also that it is dark and he wouldn’t be able to read it anyway. “It was three forty-five quite recently, I think.”

Crowley jerks awake, hisses several profanities, and disappears inside his room again.

“There really is no need for that kind of language,” says Aziraphale, who is feeling quite rattled from seeing a flash of Crowley’s midsection when he rubbed at his eyes just now. 

“Sorry,” says Crowley, for the second time that morning, and Aziraphale starts to feel sympathy. “I didn’t - oh, shit - I forgot - fuck - I can’t believe I - ”

“What is it, dear boy?” says Aziraphale, who promptly regrets saying dear boy ( _really, Aziraphale, what kind of ridiculous antiquated language will you use next?_ ) but cannot take it back. All he can do is hope that Crowley is too sleepy and panicked to notice - which seems an awful thing to hope for. 

“Delivery,” says Crowley, dashing down the hall past Aziraphale and towards the door. “Last night - fuck - ” he caught his foot on the same chair that tripped up Aziraphale - “had to work late, didn’t get home til one, forgot - ”

“Oh my,” says Aziraphale, appalled. “And must you stay at work all day today?” 

Crowley looks up from sliding his feet into his boots, looking baffled and befuddled and it makes Aziraphale’s heart do strange twisty things. 

“Yes,” he says, sounding bewildered. “That’s what you do at work, isn’t it?”

“Well, usually,” says Aziraphale, wringing his hands, “but not when you’ve only gotten a few hours’ sleep.” 

“Eh, ‘m used to it,” says Crowley, waving a dismissive hand and heading out the door. Aziraphale, feeling as though he’s just starting to understand something very big, follows him.

“Is that why you never wake up to your alarms?” he asks as they make their way down the stairs. 

Crowley looks intensely apologetic. 

“Ah, dammit, angel, I’m sorry - ”

They both stop and look at each other, feeling panicked, but for different reasons.

“What,” says Aziraphale, feeling lightheaded for some inexplicable reason. (Though it might have something to do with the endearment and the emotions that seemed to be lying underneath.) “What.” 

“Aghck,” says Crowley, looking even more intensely apologetic, this time with touches of utter dismay. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I really - ”

“No, no,” says Aziraphale, whose irritation at being woken up has melted away in the face of this revelation. “You needn’t be sorry. For not waking up, or for… well. But, I just - I’d like to understand. How long…?”

Crowley looks miserable, and Aziraphale feels suddenly wretched. Expecting Crowley to be brave when he himself hasn’t said a thing for years. 

“Well, never mind. You don’t have to - It’s all right. Only - ”

Crowley is clutching the railing with white-knuckled fingers and looking thoroughly unhappy, and Aziraphale suddenly remembers that he’s late and might be in trouble if he’s kept any longer by a fussy, demanding… angel, apparently. He feels himself start to smile. His neighbour really is one of the sweetest people he’s ever met. 

“Only,” he says again, feeling stronger and determined, “when you get home from work tonight, no matter how late it is, perhaps you could knock on my door and we could have a conversation? I could tell you…” Still time to back out, if you wanted, his brain whispers, but Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who woke up ten minutes ago and has had the worst morning of his life, probably, and knows that he can’t. “I could tell you how much I liked hearing you call me ‘angel,’ and how much I might like to hear it again.”

Crowley’s head jerks up. His eyes are wide, and Aziraphale feels a rush of tenderness towards him. 

“Now go on, dearest,” he says, feeling incredibly bold. (And flattered. Crowley all but chokes at the name.) “You musn’t be late.”

And he leans forward, using the momentum of his own courage, and presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. 

He pulls back, and Crowley’s mouth is hanging open, and he looks incredibly dazed. 

“Go,” says Aziraphale, unable to keep from grinning, and Crowley seems to wake up for the second time today.

“Right!” he says, trying to take the next step down but missing it and only saving himself from falling with his death grip on the railing. He can’t seem to look away from Aziraphale. (Very flattering, indeed.) “Right,” he says again, and reluctantly wrenches his gaze away to focus on the next step. “Tonight, then,” he says, and there is wonder in his tone and Aziraphale wishes he could kiss him again. Preferably in a less innocuous location. “I’ll look forward to it,” says Crowley, and then, tentatively, “... angel.”

“It’s a date,” says Aziraphale, and leaves Crowley to find his way down the stairs on his own. 

(And if the next morning Aziraphale doesn’t need to leave his own apartment to snap at Crowley to silence his alarm… well. That’s his own business.)


	3. Mechanic AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is a mechanic and Aziraphale is in Love.

“Oh, dear,” says Aziraphale, well aware that she’s fretting and not helping matters but unable to help herself. “What can we do?”

“Not a lot,” says Newt glumly, looking nearly as worried as Aziraphale feels.

They’re in the middle of nowhere, and Newton’s antiquated car (He affectionately calls it ‘Dick Turpin. Aziraphale calls it ‘wretched thing.’) has finally decided to give up the ghost. The clock is ticking ever closer to midnight, and all because they went to watch the latest Greta Gerwig movie. (Which was, admittedly, worth it.)

“Oh, you’re both ridiculous,” huffs Anathema, pulling out her phone. “We can just call a tow service. Didn’t this occur to the two of you?”

Aziraphale and Newt are quiet. This option had not, in fact, occurred to either of them. (This is probably because neither of them are very intuitive about technology. Newton has single-handedly destroyed every mobile phone he’s ever had, and Aziraphale hasn’t even bothered getting one. The landline at her shop works just fine, thank you.)

“Honestly,” says Anathema, rolling her eyes and dialing a number. She explains their predicament to whoever’s on the other end of the line, listens, nods, says “see you soon,” and hangs up. “Now,” she says to Aziraphale and Newton, “that was a two-minute conversation, and it means that we’re going to be home in, like, a couple of hours, tops. Surely that’s enough to convince you that phones are good, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale tries to look like she’s considering it. “Well, I suppose that it would be frightfully convenient to be able to call someone at any time,” she says, trying to sound placating.

“Yes!” says Anathema.

“But isn’t it a bit concerning, the fact that it could run out of battery at any time?” says Aziraphale, and Anathema looks like she might cry.

“I give up,” she says, and Aziraphale tries not to feel smug. It’ll take a lot more than that for her to cave and buy a mobile.

*

They wait for twenty minutes, during which time Aziraphale and Newt grow more and more skeptical and Anathema becomes more and more insistent. And impatient.

“Honestly,” she says for the umpteenth time. “Just because the mechanic owns a tow truck doesn’t mean she can break the sound barrier. She’s still beholden to the laws of physics like the rest of us.”

And that intrigues Aziraphale. Old-fashioned, she knows, to be intrigued by a female mechanic, but here she is. Blame it on her sheltered, shuttered upbringing. She wonders what the mechanic will look like. She wonders what prompted the mechanic to pursue a career in mechanicking.

And then she doesn’t have to wonder anymore, because there are headlights shining in her face and she feels nervous, of all things. Don’t be silly! she scolds her foolish, hopeful heart. As if she’d be interested in you.  
Anathema gets out of the car, and so does Newt, so Aziraphale does, too, because it’d be weird to stay in the vehicle when no one else is, right? The mechanic swings her door open and slides down to the ground. Aziraphale’s breath catches in her throat.

She’s not sure if it’s the purply-pink light of the setting sun or the fact that she’s had a little bit of time to convince herself that the ‘she’ mechanic might be her soulmate, but the woman striding towards them is stunning. She’s tall and slender and her hair is fiery and Aziraphale isn’t sure how she’s supposed to act like a normal person when faced with such a magnificent woman.

“Hello, folks,” says the mechanic, offering them all a lopsided grin that makes Aziraphale’s heart speed up. (Down, girl, she thinks.) “What seems to be the trouble with your lovely vehicle, here?”

She gives Dick Turpin a glance that is decidedly amicable, and Aziraphale thinks that she really needs to get her heart under control. She could never date someone that liked the wretched thing.

Newt details the wretched thing’s ailments and Aziraphale busies herself with trying (and failing, mostly) not to stare. Oh, but there are so many things to stare at. The long, elegant fingers with which the mechanic is pointing at Dick Turpin. The twist of her torso as she looks back towards her truck. The curve of her mouth and the flash of her teeth as she smiles at something Newt said.

“You could be a little less obvious with the drooling, you know,” Anathema says into Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale jumps.

“I’m not - It’s not - I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says guiltily.

Anathema is grinning like the cat that got the canary.

“Oh, yes you do,” she says gleefully.

“I do not, and I’ll thank you kindly to leave it alone,” says Aziraphale, flustered.

The mechanic, who hasn’t introduced herself, looks over at them and smiles. That smile, turned in her direction, is overwhelming. And then Newt says something and she turns back to him and Aziraphale feels like she can breathe again.

“Yep,” says Anathema, who is smiling so widely that Aziraphale is surprised that her face hasn’t cracked, “You’ve got it bad.”

Aziraphale would protest, except that now the mechanic is walking towards them and any and all words are catching in her throat.

“Hi,” says the mechanic, flashing them another grin. (They seem to come far too easily for such devastating things.) “The two of us haven’t met yet, have we? Anthea J. Crowley, at your service.” And she proffers a hand which is far more attractive than any hand has the right to be, topped with black, glossy fingernails. Aziraphale thinks distantly that mechanics should not have manicures.

Her voice is stuck somewhere in her stomach, but Anathema’s elbow nudges her ribs again and dislodges it.

“Hello,” says Aziraphale, taking Anthea’s hand and trying not to think about how strong and slim and wonderful it feels in hers. Her voice is a little rough but no one comments on it. “Aziraphale Malak.”

“Ah, an angel,” says Anthea, eyes twinkling. “Makes sense - you look like one.”

Aziraphale feels herself blushing and splutters a little, trying to figure out how to say “how absurd” and “thank you” and “how do you know anglicized Arabic?” and ends up saying none of them.

“She does, doesn’t she?” says Anathema, who hasn’t stopped smirking since Anthea sauntered towards them.

Aziraphale finds her voice, and it says, “You’re ridiculous,” and Anthea smiles again.

“Ah, friendship,” she says.

“Indeed,” says Aziraphale, and Anthea meets her eyes, still smiling, and Aziraphale is mesmerized by how very like gold they are. She has never seen eyes that colour, and she never wants to again, because she wants to lose herself in Anthea’s forever and always.

“So!” says Anathema. “Enough space in your rig for all of us?”

“Oh, yes,” Anthea says. “Bentley can handle anything.”

“You’ve named your truck?” asks Aziraphale, feeling amused and still incredibly disoriented due to Anthea’s amazing eyes.

“‘Have I named my truck?’” parrots Anthea, rolling her eyes. “Of course I’ve named my truck! Haven’t you named your vehicle, angel?”

“Aziraphale doesn’t have one,” says Anathema. “They’re too modern an invention for her.”

Anthea gapes. “No car?” she echoes. “How do you get around?”

“Mostly I find charitable people that are willing to take me somewhere in return for a small payment,” sniffs Aziraphale, feeling (irrationally, probably) attacked. “Otherwise, I take the bus or walk.”

Anthea holds up her hands placatingly, clearly picking up on the defensive tone. “I meant no offense,” she says, “I was just surprised. This may come as a shock, but I love cars.”

Aziraphale, feeling foolish but amused, says, “Trucks, too, apparently.” Anthea grins again (she has to stop doing that) and nods.

“Trucks, too. And vans. Oh, and motorbikes! Speedy little machines.”

She looks off dreamily. Aziraphale doesn’t have to fake a little shudder.

“Heaven help us,” she mutters, and Anthea throws back her head and laughs.

“They won’t need to,” she says, “I’m not taking you home in a motorbike. I’m taking you in Bentley. She doesn’t move very quickly.”

“About that,” says Anathema quickly, “you don’t have to take us home - ”

“Nonsense!” says Anthea cheerfully. “You’re paying me enough, and I haven’t got anything else on for the evening. Now,” and she jogs back to ‘Bentley’ and opens the passenger door, “hop in!”

*

Aziraphale isn’t sure what Crowley’s (she prefers Crowley, it turns out) definition of ‘very quickly’ is, and she’s very sure that she has absolutely no interest in finding out. The truck zooms along the motorway, with Crowley cheerfully answering the questions that Newt and Anathema are asking her. (Aziraphale still can’t quite seem to find her voice. Something about the curve of Crowley’s neck, the grip of her hands on the steering wheel, steals it away.

“Didn’t grow up thinking I was gonna be a mechanic,” Crowley says, changing lanes so abruptly that Newton lets out a little shriek. “Got kicked out when I was sixteen, dropped out of school, and didn’t have anything better to do.”

Aziraphale would dearly love to know why she got kicked out but is also aware that that’s not an appropriate thing to ask someone you’ve only just met.

“And do you have a partner?” asks Anathema, steering the conversation. “Kids?”

“Nah,” says Crowley. “Got a godson, though. Adam.”

”“How old is your godson?” Aziraphale asks, surprising herself.

“Four,” says Anthea, smiling a little. She has a lot of smiles, Aziraphale is starting to realize. This one is soft and fond and makes Aziraphale’s tummy perform some impressive acrobatics. “He’s adorable, and also a menace. Little hellspawn needs to be doing something at every hour of the day. You know how kids are.”

“Of course,” says Aziraphale, who has not seen a child younger than the age of eighteen since she was one. Anathema smirks audibly.

“What about you, angel?” asks Crowley, glancing at Aziraphale and then back at the road. Aziraphale tries to pretend that a little tingle doesn’t go through her every time Crowley calls her ‘angel.’ “Got a family?”

“No,” says Aziraphale. “I am currently unattached.” _But I **could** be attached. I’m not averse to attachment. I -_

  
“We’re right down this street,” says Anathema, and Aziraphale forces herself to focus.

*

Crowley drops her off at her flat, and Aziraphale is overwhelmed with panic at the thought of never seeing her again, but she needn’t have worried.

“It was good to meet you, angel,” says Crowley, rolling down her window so she can speak to Aziraphale, who is on the pavement. For some reason that Aziraphale would very much like to know Crowley is blushing. “If you ever - uh, I know you don’t have a car but if you have a friend that - yeah. Um. Here’s my card.”

And she all but throws a piece of paper out the window in Aziraphale’s direction, and Aziraphale doesn’t have time to respond to her hasty “bye!” before she takes off down the street.

Aziraphale stands outside for longer than she’ll ever admit, clutching the card to her chest and feeling butterflies.

*

They text a little bit, after Aziraphale works up the courage to send a ‘thank you again for the ride,’ and then they call each other once or twice, and then Crowley, amidst quite a bit of stammering, suggests that they go out for lunch.

Aziraphale spends the morning fluctuating between telling herself that it doesn’t matter what she wears, that if Crowley doesn’t like her as she is then she isn’t worth her time anyway, and changing in and out of five different outfits.

“Heya!” says Crowley, when she opens the door to a brisk knock. She’s showing no sign of the nervousness she displayed on the phone, which makes Aziraphale jealous, because her nerves are on full display.  
“Hello,” says Aziraphale nervously.

Crowley immediately switches tactics.

“Hey, angel, you know it’s just lunch, right? There’s no, uh, no pressure. I have no expectations. Zero expectations. Less than zero. Negative expectations. Not that they’re negative! But, you know - ”

“I do,” says Aziraphale, because she thinks she does and she can’t seem to stop smiling. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley turns a vibrant shade of vermillion but smiles back at her.

“Where to?” asks Aziraphale, once they’ve settled into their respective seats. (Crowley is not driving the truck today. She’s driving a black convertible, which she has also referred to as Bentley. Aziraphale has decided not to ask.)

“Wherever you want, angel,” she says, flipping on a turning signal, and Aziraphale looks out the window, hating how hot her face is. Crowley misinterprets it.

“Oh, no,” she says, and then says something that is a lot of consonants. Aziraphale is very impressed with how suddenly Crowley’s composure seems to have fallen apart. “‘M really sorry a - Aziraphale. That - sorry. I never even asked - and I’ve been saying it all this time - ’

“Don’t worry,” says Aziraphale, incredibly endeared. “I don’t mind.”

Crowley visibly relaxes and risks a glance over at her. “Thank goodness,” she says. They ride along in silence for awhile, and then, “So, where to?”

*

They end up at Crowley’s auto shop, because after a lot of wheedling on Crowley’s part Aziraphale finally admits to being curious. She has, after all, never been to one.

She’s struck by how glorious Crowley is in the place she’s made for herself, how incredibly well the sleek black lines of the garage and the minimalist design of the waiting area suit her.

“And these are my plants,” says Crowley with a flourish, indicating a wall that is nearly entirely lined with shelves, upon which is a veritable garden of plants.

“Oh, they’re lovely!” says Aziraphale, darting towards them and stroking a leaf with her hand. “Absolutely beautiful!”

She turns around to beam at Crowley and then gets distracted, because Crowley is staring at her with a look in her eyes that sets Aziraphale’s heart quivering. She licks her lips, and watches Crowley’s gaze drop to follow the motion. She feels entirely too warm.

“Do you grow them yourself?” she asks in little more than a whisper.

Crowley seems to come back to herself, shake something off. She clears her throat and offers Aziraphale yet another smile, but this one seems shaky, like its foundations aren’t solid.

“Yep,” she says, shoving her hands in her pockets.

“Well, you’re quite the find,” says Aziraphale. “You own a garage and a garden.”

“Well, what can I say?” says Crowley, shrugging, blushing again. Aziraphale is entranced by the way she can watch the pink flush spread across her face. “I do my best.”

Aziraphale thinks of a lot of things to say, but says none of them, just turns back to the plants and strokes another leaf. Her heart is pounding.

Crowley clears her throat again. “Well,” she says, “I promised you lunch.”

“That you did,” agrees Aziraphale, stepping through the door to the garage that Crowley’s holding open.

“Did you have a place in mind?” asks Crowley, and when Aziraphale looks back at her she’s still holding the door, watching Aziraphale, something very soft and warm and thrilling in her eyes.

“Not particularly,” murmurs Aziraphale, and then Crowley is stepping towards her, hands in her pockets, looking incredibly nervous. Aziraphale’s heart seems to have relocated to her throat.

“Look,” says Crowley, “I don’t - I’m not - aghck. Can’t believe I’m doing this. But you - and I - you’re gorgeous, Aziraphale, you must know that, must hear it all the time, and I know I’m just a scrawny awkward car enthusiast but you’re beautiful, good Lord are you ever beautiful, and if you say no then of course I’ll respect that and no hard feelings, obviously, and I hope we can still be friends - or friendly acquaintances - or just acquaintances, at least - and of course we can still go to lunch after, of course, if you want, and if this is too - well, I just wanted to know if you’d - um - would you maybe - ”

And then Aziraphale, driven by impulsiveness for perhaps the first time in her life, does what she’s wanted to do since Crowley sauntered towards Dick Turpin, backlit by the setting sun. She reaches out and tugs Crowley’s face towards herself and kisses her like her life depends on it.

Crowley stiffens, and for one horrifying moment Aziraphale thinks she’s read it all wrong, and then Crowley makes a small, desperate sound and wraps both hands around Aziraphale’s waist and melts into her and Aziraphale is tingly everywhere and extra warm in a few places and she’s kissing Crowley, she’s kissing Crowley, and it is wonderful.

Crowley pulls back after awhile, looking dazed, and keeps one hand on Aziraphale’s waist but brings the other up to cup her cheek.

“You’re perfect,” she says softly.

Aziraphale hides her face in her shoulder, and Crowley wraps her arms around her tightly.

“I mean it,” she insists. “Blush and deflect all you like, but you’re perfection. You’re amazing. You’re - ” she makes a frustrated noise and Aziraphale squeezes her and she relaxes. “You’re everything, angel.”

“Oh, my,” whispers Aziraphale, a little overwhelmed.

Crowley promptly (predictably) starts to panic.

“But I don’t - that’s too much, too soon, isn’t it? Why can’t I say the right - I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I mean it, I really do, but I shouldn’t have said it until later, and - ”

“Oh, hush,” says Aziraphale gently. Crowley discreetly wipes her eyes. “You’re quite an exceptional woman yourself.”

“Well,” says Crowley, pulling away and sniffling. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” says Aziraphale, and means it.

“Well,” says Crowley again, clapping her hands and effectively shattering the moment. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” says Aziraphale, and they go to lunch.


	4. Blogger AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's had a pretty consistent commenter, and - oh? what's this? Angel1941 is on Tinder???

One of Crowley’s favourite things about being a full-time blogger is that he can sleep whenever he wants to for however long he wants. For example, it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and he’s only just rolling out of bed and no one is judging him. What a good life.

He yawns, stretches, finds some water and drinks it. He stalks past his plants with a hypocritical “don’t you dare slack off.” He fetches his laptop from the living room and takes it with him into the kitchen, where he sets it on the table and then rummages in the fridge for some eggs.

Eggs are timeless. Eggs are always appropriate to eat. Crowley loves eggs.

Once he’s beaten and scrambled them to his satisfaction, he sits down at the table and opens his laptop.

20,000 hits. Not bad, he thinks, grinning to himself.

It helps that he used to be a network-employed journalist. He was good at it, too, at asking questions, at wheedling until an interviewee caved and told him the whole truth. But it felt restricting, being assigned things, only writing what his bosses handed him, so once his name got big enough he left the network and started a blog.

And somehow, it’s providing him with enough to live on.

He scrolls through the comments section, telling himself that he’s not looking for anyone in particular and knowing full well it’s a lie. He’s just about given hope when there’s a ping, a notification, and he clicks on the little pop-up, hoping that maybe…

And it is.

**Angel1941: This was absolutely lovely, my dear. I have been so enjoying the chronicles of Frances the Fern. I hope that she starts behaving for you. Have a good week!**

Crowley doesn’t bother hiding the massive grin that spread over his face the second he saw the user name. Angel, as he’s been calling the commenter in his head, started commenting on his posts about four months ago, and has been taking up progressively more space in Crowley’s mind.

He gets up from the table, grinning like a loon, and sets about making coffee while reflecting on how he should respond. It’s not like he can just say what he’s thinking. (What he’s thinking is something along the lines of “when did I develop a crush on you? Why did I develop a crush on you? We’ve never met each other!” Not the sort of stuff you can just post online.) He’s got to be clever, subtle, allude to the fact that Angel brings him joy without stating it explicitly.

He can do it.

*

Except he can’t. After a couple of hours, he gives up and replies in some little blurb about how Frances will shape up if she knows what’s best for her, and it’s good to hear that someone’s reading. Not even close to the witty, heartfelt content he was hoping for.

Discouraged, he goes searching for his phone and then pulls up a dating app when he finds it. Nothing to get your mind off of silly internet crushes like the cathartic left-right-left of Tinder. (Crowley is just enough of a public figure that sometimes people accuse him of catfishing, which is always fun. He enjoys catering to their suspicions, sending increasingly wacky and grammatically incorrect messages, until they report him and he gets to pull the ‘surprise! It’s really me!’ card.)

Crowley starts swiping, starting to warm to his work, and then a profile slides across his screen and his heart skips a beat.

**Angel1941.**

There’s the angel, beaming up at him, wearing a truly bizarre tartan bowtie and a suit that looks like it belongs in the 1800s. And he’s using the same username. What an old-fashioned... But he’s smiling, he’s happy, he’s beautiful, and Crowley can feel himself melting into the couch cushions.

He can’t swipe right. Angel won’t like him, not in real life. They’ll talk for a little bit and then Angel will, wisely, decide that Crowley is too much and he’d rather not have him in his life. Crowley won’t get comments that make him Snoopy dance internally. Crowley won’t have anything to look forward to.

(Crowley might just be enough. Angel might just like him. All his dreams might just come true.)

Not probable, but the possibility will be much more concrete than if he doesn’t take the risk.

Well, shucks, he thinks, and swipes right.

**It’s a match!** the screen congratulates him, and Crowley’s insides flop around like fish out of water.

Well, that’s done now, he tells himself, and sets his phone down resolving not to look at it again unless he gets a notification.

He picks it up a few minutes later.

*

After agonizing nearly the entire afternoon over whether he should send a message, Crowley’s phone pings from across the kitchen and he dives for it, nearly toppling his glass of wine as he does so.

**Angel1941: Well, hello there! Perhaps I can hear about Frances in real-time updates. :)**

Crowley sags against the counter and clutches his phone to his chest, smiling hard enough to hurt his face.

*

Angel - Aziraphale, actually, it turns out, but habits are hard to break - is a brilliant conversationalist, and seems to somehow enjoy Crowley’s pathetic attempts at responding in kind. Crowley doesn’t know why he seems to be so tongue-tied (as it were) when he’s speaking to Aziraphale - he’s a writer, for goodness’ sake - but he’s grateful that Aziraphale doesn’t mind.

As far as he can tell, anyway.

They chat off and on for nearly two months, and Aziraphale comments on every blog post and then gives in-depth reviews to Crowley later, and Crowley is having the time of his life. He gives Aziraphale his number and they switch from Tinder to texting.

Aziraphale starts calling him ‘dear.’ (He nearly chokes to death on his coffee the first time.)

He learns that Aziraphale works at the local library, that he loves sushi and hates hot dogs, that he goes to St. James’s every weekend to feed the ducks (frozen peas and things like that, of course, because bread is bad for them. Did you know that? Crowley hadn’t, but had been glad to find out.) and take a stroll, that he wants to go to Paris for the crepes.

( **All the way to Paris just for crepes, angel, really?**

**I’d do a good many things for crepes, dear. You ought to know that by now.** )

After two months, Aziraphale sends him a message that nearly sends him into cardiac arrest.

**Angel: I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to say.**

Crowley physically winces and sets about trying to brace himself for something like ‘you’re fun to talk to, but I’ve had about all I can’ or ‘I’ve had enough of you and your nonsense’ or ‘this was all a cruel joke and I’ve never actually cared about you.’ (He may be, possibly, a little dramatic.)

**Crowley: ask away**

Crowley tosses his phone onto the couch and paces his flat restlessly. He really, really, really doesn’t want to stop talking to Aziraphale. He’s gotten more than a little attached, and he doesn’t - he can’t -

His phone buzzes and he lunges for it.

**Angel: Very well.**

**Crowley, it has been an absolute joy texting with you, but**

Crowley’s heart sinks. He hasn’t opened the message. He doesn’t really want to. He looks at his lock screen until it goes black, and then he finds that he wants to know. (Needs to know, even.)

**Angel: Very well.**

**Crowley, it has been an absolute joy texting with you, but I must confess that I’d dearly love to see your face and speak with you in person.**

**Would you consider joining me for dinner sometime this week? If you’re free, of course.**

**I’d very much like to take you to the Ritz, if you’d be amenable.**

Crowley laughs. He laughs and jumps up and down like an excited toddler and clutches his phone to his chest and holds it at arms’ length and chucks it at the couch again.

“Yes!” he cries to his empty apartment, “yes!”

After he’s celebrated enough, he picks up his phone again.

**Crowley: I’d be amenable.**

**Angel: Oh, good! Shall we say Sunday? 9 pm?**

**Crowley: It’s a date.**


	5. Arranged Marriage AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's supposed to marry Gabriel. (Gabrielle, actually, for the purposes of this story.) Aziraphale doesn't want to. Things happen, and Crowley brings snacks.

Prince Aziraphale has been slated to marry the Princess Gabrielle for nearly three years now. It’s a brilliant match for both kingdoms for a plethora of reasons. 

Aziraphale is not excited.

Gabrielle is the definition of a proper princess. He realizes this. She’s strong and clever and dashing.

She is also absolutely ravenous for power, and he has no interest in partaking. If he is to be king after his father’s death, he’d much prefer to rule with a gentle hand than look into conquesting and expanding, and this is exactly what Gabrielle would ask him to do. He knows it. She knows it. Their parents know it.

(He suspects that this is part of why she’s been selected. His parents have always thought him too soft.)

At first, Aziraphale was all but resigned to his fate. He’d accepted the fact that he was going to marry Gabrielle, spend a lifetime disagreeing with her and being exhausted, and then die, leaving behind a kingdom that would hopefully be exactly the same size as when he inherited it. He didn’t like that, but it was the way it was.

Now, he’s not so sure it has to be that way.

It’s been a long time since he’s started noticing the way Gabrielle looks at Beelzebub. There’s something in her eyes when she looks at them that he doesn’t see anywhere else - which is saying a lot, because since their engagement Aziraphale and Gabrielle have been spending the vast majority of their time together.

It’s never glaringly obvious. (Aziraphale suspects that Gabrielle has spent a long time figuring out how to keep the things she’s feeling off of her face.) It’s little things - the way she all but beams at Beelzebub when they’re in a meeting. The way she brings up their name in conversation when she and Aziraphale are alone and she’s not carefully monitoring her own words. The way Aziraphale stumbled upon them kissing the living daylights out of each other one time.

The little things.

He’s not sure how to bring it up, though. He certainly won’t tell anyone - it’s Gabrielle’s and Beelzebub’s secret. He won’t breathe a word. If she wants to go through with the wedding, despite her obvious affections for someone that is not him, he won’t stop her. 

Oh, but the thought of freedom is intoxicating. The idea of being able to walk away from this marriage that he never wanted. Aziraphale has resolved that if he does get out of it, he’s going to start fighting back. He’s had lots of time to think about it, and he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life with someone his parents picked out for him. He wants to look for his own partner, and, if he can’t find one, spend the rest of his life on his own. 

But, of course, if Gabrielle chooses to take the path of least resistance, he won’t stop her. 

*

She shows every sign of doing so. The date of the wedding is set. She spends hours in consultations with his mother, talking about lace and seating plans and cake. Aziraphale tries not to feel disappointed.

His father talks to him about being a good husband and a good king. He hates every second of the conversation.

The date of the wedding draws nearer. Aziraphale finds himself rebelling more and more at the idea of letting this major decision be made for him. He decides to discuss it with Gabrielle. Surely her love for another means that she’ll understand, that she’ll wish to dissolve the union that hasn’t quite been made yet - for both their sakes. 

Yes, she’ll understand.

He knocks on her door, well-rehearsed speech on the tip of his tongue. And then her door opens, and her face has tearstains on it.

“Get in here,” she says, and he follows her into her chambers. 

“Gabrielle - ” he tries to begin, but words leave his mind when he sees Beelzebub sitting on the bed, eyes swollen and puffy. 

“We’ve been talking,” says Gabrielle, and her voice is scratchy, like she’s done a lot of crying, “and we have to do it. For our parents, the kingdoms, everybody - we have to.”

Beelzebub sniffles and leans their head against Gabrielle’s shoulder. Gabrielle presses a kiss to the top of it. 

“You understand, don’t you, Aziraphale?” asks Gabrielle. “That this is the way it has to be? Me and Bee behind closed doors, and you and I in front of them?”

Aziraphale’s heart sinks.

“Yes, of course,” he says. 

And he does. He understands. He just wishes that it weren’t this way.

*

Aziraphale’s wedding day dawns bright and early. He feels wretched.

“Oh, I remember how nervous I was on my wedding day!” blusters his father. Aziraphale wants to laugh but doesn’t and instead wistfully imagines what it’d be like if it was just nerves. 

The hours before the ceremony pass quickly. Aziraphale hates all of them. He feels like his skin doesn’t feel quite right. He feels like he’s trapped in a nightmare. He feels guilty for feeling like he feels.

It’s awful.

And then he’s getting manhandled over to his post next to the altar, and there are so many people in the room, all staring at him, that his palms get sweaty, and he thinks absently that poor Gabrielle is going to have to hold onto clammy palms while she makes vows that are going to quietly ruin both their lives.

And then she’s marching down the aisle, resplendent in her ludicrously expensive dress. She’s smiling, but Aziraphale can see how empty it is. 

How is this happening? he wonders wildly. (Funny how three years of resignation have evaporated so quickly and thoroughly.)

The priest starts talking. He’s a droner. Aziraphale looks at the flowers in Gabrielle’s hair and thinks how ill they suit her, how much better some pearls would have been. Or perhaps some gems. 

And then the priest says ‘does anyone object to this union?’ and a small voice says ‘I do’ and all hell breaks loose.

*

Hours later, after a lot of shouting and quite a few tears and an absolutely exhausting meeting with some lawyers, Bee and Gabrielle are on their honeymoon and Aziraphale is in his room, feeling thoroughly wrung out.

What a day.

There’s a tap on the door and he wants to shout at whomever it is but the knock was so timid and he finds himself saying, “Come in.”

A caterer with bright red hair sticks his head in the door.

“Hope I’m not, ah, interrupting,” he says, and the poor dear sounds incredibly nervous and Aziraphale is still drained but he has the wherewithal to soothe someone’s nerves. 

“Not in the slightest,” he says. “Come in, come in.”

“Well,” says the person, backing into the room, and pulling a trolley behind him, “I thought you might want something to nibble on.”

Aziraphale stares.

There’s a feast laid out on the trays - all his favourite dishes, and several perfect desserts, and a bottle of Château Pétrus, and he finds himself tearing up a little.

“Oh, nonono!” says the server, clearly panicked, already starting to wheel it away. “Never mind! I’m sorry! I just thought - it’s been a long day for you and, y’know, sustenance - ”

“It’s perfect,” says Aziraphale, not bothering to hide how shaky his voice is. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Oh,” says the caterer, sounding relieved. “Oh, thank goodness.”

And he wheels it back up beside Aziraphale’s bed. 

“How did you know all of my favourites?” asks Aziraphale, slightly awed. It really - everything on that tray is something he wants to eat. 

“Just, uh, asked,” says the caterer. “In the kitchens. Y’know.”

Aziraphale is starting to, judging by the bright redness of the person’s cheeks and the nearly palpable anxiousness radiating off of him. 

“May I ask your name?” he asks, sitting up and reaching for a biscuit.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” says the person automatically, “but I mostly go by Crowley.”

“Well, Crowley,” says Azirpahale, not missing the way the blush deepens when he says Crowley’s name, “this is absolutely delightful. Thank you.”

“No worries,” says Crowley, starting to back away. “Thanks. To you. For, er, appreciating it.”

“Anyone around here can tell you that I always appreciate a good meal,” says Aziraphale, “and might I persuade you to join me, Crowley? There’s more than enough for two, and some company sounds delightful.”

_**Your**_ _company sounds delightful_ , he adds in his head, but they just met and he won’t be rushing things, thank you very much.

“Oh,” says Crowley, surprised. “I don’t - uh - maybe - ”

“If you’re busy, I understand,” says Aziraphale quickly, trying not to dwell on how disappointed the thought makes him. “You’ve already indulged me more than enough for one evening.”

“Oh, well,” says Crowley, and he’s stopped moving towards the door, at least. “I don’t - I’m not on duty anymore. Got nothing else on. If you really wanted - ”

“I do!” says Aziraphale, because he really does.

“Not sure it’s exactly proper protocol, inviting the help to eat with you,” says Crowley, scanning Aziraphale’s face for signs that he really means what he’s saying. Aziraphale feels a rush of fondness.

“I’m not sure either,” says Aziraphale, “but it hasn’t exactly been a day for protocol, has it?”

“It hasn’t, has it?” says Crowley, and draws up a chair.

Aziraphale watches him pick at a salad and listens to his account of the panic in the kitchens when it seemed that no one would be attending the feast and feels excited by the possibilities and grateful for what he already has.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt this way.

It’s a good feeling.


	6. Titanic AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My gosh. The angst is real with this one. Welcome to the darkest plot/themes of the week (Titanic stuff, coercion (Gabriel @ Aziraphale. Gabriel is a dick), major character discorporation.) Mind your health.  
> (Also I wrote this in like 20 minutes, haha, I love having no time management skills.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO  
> Once we get to the end of the week I'm going to make a series of this and delete this giant thing, because what was I thinking, doing a ton of different stories in the same work? I don't know. But then I was on tumblr and AO3 comment of the day said something about how walls of tags are very offputting and then you can't find the story that has the thing you came to the work for and I was like "... wow how have I not thought of this."  
> Also my brain is so dead, help, we're like three weeks into the semester and I'm already donezo.  
> ANYWAY.  
> THANK YOU TO MY COMMENTERS. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND HOPEFULLY YOU KNOW THAT AS FAR AS I'M CONCERNED YOU ARE UTTER PERFECTION. MY FEELINGS FOR YOU ARE SO STRONG THAT I'M SCREAMING THEM AT YOU IN CAPSLOCK.  
> Thank you to EVERYBODY for reading, because there are few things more thrilling than knowing that there are real people in the world reading your stuff.  
> Happy Friday!!!

Aziraphale’s heart has sunk so low that she’s pretty sure it’s tangled in her stomach.

Her mood is a sharp contrast to everyone else boarding the ship, all of whom are deliriously happy. Excitement is tangible in the air. 

After all, who _wouldn’t_ be excited to be boarding the great ocean liner Titanic? It’s big and bright and beautiful and, as they've all been informed, unsinkable.

Aziraphale, who is miserably handing over her ticket and is also, incidentally, an angel of the Lord, knows better.

She’d been rather charmed by all the talk of the ‘unsinkable’ ship, to be honest. The humans’ confidence in their handiwork is always endearing, in her opinion.

Heaven did not think so.

She’s been tasked with making sure the Titanic sinks mid-journey, and she feels ill every time she thinks about it. She resisted this assignment more than she’s ever resisted anything. But she had no allies in her fight, and the higher-ups won, as they always do, and she can’t help wondering if this really is what the Highest Up would want. Surely She wouldn’t be in favour of drowning all of her children?

Images of an ark and a unicorn and dismayed golden eyes flash in front of hers, and Aziraphale forces herself to focus on the present, in which a voice is shouting “Aziraphale!” 

She turns to find Crowley weaving his skillful way through the crowd towards her, looking absolutely delighted. 

“Hullo!” he says once he’s within earshot. “What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Aziraphale asks instead, unwilling to answer the question.

“‘M only here for the ride,” says Crowley, beaming, clearly caught up in the thrill of it all. “Built all this themselves, angel, can you believe it? Humanity - best idea She ever had, don’t you think?”

“Yes, quite,” say Aziraphale, clutching her bag and praying she doesn’t lose her lunch. And they haven’t even put out to sea yet.

“Here, let me take that,” says Crowley, snatching it out of her grasp before she can properly protest. “You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“Oh, no,” says Aziraphale, “I’m feeling fine.”

“If you say so,” says Crowley cheerfully, “but I’m going to carry it anyway.”

He is _very_ excited about this boat, thinks Aziraphale wretchedly, and wishes fervently that she weren’t so much of a coward, that Falling didn’t scare her as much as it does, that she’d fought Gabriel harder. 

Too late now.

*

Crowley shows her to her room, chattering about the ship and how big it is and what’s on it and who’s on it and Aziraphale grows more and more upset about what she has to do. 

She lets Crowley show her _around_ the room, too, regaling her with information about the bunk, the mirror, the bathroom. She lets him lead her up to the deck, watches him close his eyes and inhale ocean air, watches him smile to himself as children scamper past them, laughing.

And the whole time she knows, she _knows_ , that she’s going to be sinking this ship in a few days, and it makes her absolutely sick.

But it would make her sicker for Crowley to know what she’s going to do, so she forces a smile when he turns to look at her, grin stretching from ear to ear, eyes bright with excitement, and prays to be given the strength to do what she has to do.

*

Except she can’t do it. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t. She comes to this conclusion right around the time that she sees Crowley listening intently to a little girl who is telling him why the boat is floating. (It involves a lot of fairies and a few mermaids and is not very scientifically accurate but you’d never know from the serious ‘mmhmm’ and ‘really?' noises Crowley is making.) When the girl is finished explaining, he surreptitiously snaps his fingers and presents her with a mermaid doll which is sporting sparkly purple hair and a long orange tail. The bright colours and plush sturdiness of it are all are well before their time, and Aziraphale can’t stop herself from beaming at him as the girl runs off to show her new toy to her mother. 

“That was quite sweet,” she says.

Crowley promptly turns forty shades of red and sputters a lot of incoherent things that eventually turn into, “Shut up.” 

Aziraphale does, but keeps smiling at him, because she can’t help herself, and then feels guilty, because he’s a demon, and the whole time she knows with absolute certainty that she can’t do it. She cannot sink this ship and end all these lives.

She simply _cannot_.

*

But Gabriel can make her, and she learns this in the most horrible way possible. She is on the deck late one night, enjoying the fresh sea air and feeling like an awful angel, which is how she feels most of the time, these days, when there’s the unmistakable sound of someone threading themself through time and space. She turns to her left, smiling, fully expecting to see Crowley (he’s so silly, she thinks fondly, to insist on doing things the miraculous way when he could just use the stairs) but instead finding the cold violet eyes of the Archangel Gabriel. 

“Why is this ship still above water, Aziraphale?” he asks, voice dangerously level.

“Oh, Gabriel!” says Aziraphale, well aware that her attempt at surprise and innocence leaves a lot to be desired. “I was wondering if you’d - ”

“It’s been five days,” says Gabriel, voice still dangerous but not quite as level. 

“I realize that,” says Aziraphale, unable to keep the nervousness out of her voice, “but I’ve been - ”

“We _told_ you not to wait,” says Gabriel. He’s losing his calm. “We _told_ you that it was time sensitive. It has to happen - ”

“But why can’t we wait?” asks Aziraphale desperately, interrupting Gabriel for the first time possibly ever. “Why couldn’t we wait until it’s closer to shore and more - ”

“No!” says Gabriel, and he is in fact glaring at this point. “Aziraphale, we know you like the humans, but you _cannot_ let your emotions get in the way of your tasks. Angels are not supposed to _have_ emotions. _Now do the job_.”

“Couldn’t you do it for me?” says Aziraphale, aware that she’s pleading at this point and hating herself for letting it happen at all but she can’t, she can’t - 

“Aziraphale,” says Gabriel, and he’s in her personal space and she can’t seem to breathe and he’s too close and he’s angry - “ _Do it_.”

And in a moment that Aziraphale will regret for the rest of her life, she does.

*

The effects aren’t awful immediately, because Aziraphale is a coward. There’s a shudder that seems to run through the whole of the ship, and then silence. Gabriel steps back, a satisfied expression on his face. He says “was that so hard?” and then he disappears. 

Crowley appears almost immediately after, and Aziraphale feels relieved, thinking, “that was a close thing,” and then absolutely horrible, because how can she care about being found out for fraternizing with a demon when she has just done a much more unforgivable thing? 

(Except that according to Gabriel {and Michael, and Uriel} it was _supposed_ to happen and no forgiveness is necessary. Aziraphale does not understand.)

“What just happened?” he asks. There’s no hint of panic in his voice. He has no idea. He’s just curious.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and she feels as though she’s going to be violently sick any moment now, “I’m not sure.”

Crowley looks at her, really looks, because she’s never been able to lie to him. But he doesn’t realize what really happened, he can’t have, because he just looks concerned.

“What’s wrong, angel?” he demands. “Who frightened you?”

Aziraphale scoffs.

“Frightened,” she says. “Ridiculous. I’m an angel of the Lord, Crowley, I do not get _frightened_.”

“Okay, okay, I believe you,” says Crowley, who does not believe her. “Just - if something big were going down, you’d tell me, right?”

“Of course,” says Aziraphale, and when he wanders away, apparently satisfied with the answer, she starts crying.

*

It is one of the most horrendous nights of her life. 

She stays on board, trying to help where she can, trying to find quiet places to multiply lifeboats and failing. She gives hugs and distributes as much peace as she can and tries to keep the tears at bay. She tries not to think about Crowley.

And she succeeds, until they’re loading up one of the last lifeboats. He turns up at her side, hands in his pockets, a haunted look in his eyes. 

“So this is why you were here,” he says quietly. “It was the ‘unsinkable’ bit, wasn’t it? Heaven just couldn’t take that, could they?”

“Oh, Crowley,” she says, voice breaking, and somehow finds herself crying into his shoulder. His arms, wiry but strong, wrap themselves around her and she is held tight and feels safer than she ever has. (Which is silly, because she is on a sinking ship with a demon hanging onto her, but that’s the way it is.) “I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

“Shhh,” says Crowley, and his voice is raw, too. “‘Sn’t your fault.”

“But I - ”

“‘S those absolute **_wankers_** ,” he says, voice going harsh and vicious and shocking her a little bit, “that made you do it.”

“I did the miracle, though, Crowley, I - ”

“Didn’t do it until you had to,” says Crowley, and his voice is soft but full of conviction. He pulls away, holds her at arms’ length, and she tries to pretend that she doesn’t very much miss the warmth of his torso and the snugness of his arms. “Not your fault, angel. It’s not your fault.”

“Well - thank you,” she whispers, feeling overwhelmed with grace she does not deserve. “That’s not - you don’t - I’m so _sorry_ \- ”

“I know,” says Crowley, looking past her to something on the deck. He’s quiet for a minute, and when he speaks again he sounds properly choked up. “Me, too.”

She turns to see what he’s looking at, and follows his line of sight to a purple-haired doll lying, abandoned, on the deck. 

“‘S how it goes, I guess,” says Crowley, letting go of her and taking a couple long strides to pick it up. “You’d think we’d be used to it by now.” He looks at the doll contemplatively for a moment and then turns to her. “Well,” he says, puffing his cheeks and blowing out air. “This is it, then.”

“Indeed,” says Aziraphale somberly. “I’m not meant to fly away, I don’t think.”

“I’m not meant to be on board,” says Crowley ruefully. “Still, ‘m glad I came. Worth it, I think.”

“You can’t mean to - there’s still space!” says Aziraphale, staring first at him and then at the - 

Last boat. The very last one.

“There is,” agrees Crowley, and he’s looking at her in a way she thinks she understands and knows she does not want to. “Just a little, though. Just for you.”

“No!” says Aziraphale, appalled at the thought. “No, not without you, Crowley! No!” 

“Give that to her if you see her, will you?” says Crowley roughly, thrusting the doll into her hands and taking her by the shoulders. 

She starts to struggle. 

“No!” she cries. “No, no!” 

But he’s relentless, and she’s used a lot of her strength tonight, and he guides her over to the last of the lifeboats. There is just barely space, and she tries to put up enough of a fight that someone else can get in, fill up the space, before she does. 

Crowley spins her around to face him and meets her eyes. She can feel her eyes are welling up with tears. 

“You’ve got to go,” he says firmly. “You can - help. You can help, without getting into tr - you can help. And you’ve never been discorporated, and believe me, angel, you don’t want to be. Now get in the bloody lifeboat.” 

And he sweeps her up and deposits her into it with a tenderness that she starts crying harder. 

“Please,” she says, so emotionally overwrought that she doesn’t care that she’s begging. “Please come with me. Please let me stay with you. Please, Crowley, _please_ …”

“Bye, angel,” says Crowley, and kisses the back of her hand. “See you ‘round.” 

And then he lets go of her and backs up and sticks his hands back in his pockets and she and the other weeping people in the boat are lowered into the water.

She stares at the redheaded figure on the deck, who is watching the grim proceedings with very practiced, very forced casualness, and her vision blurs when he raises his hand to give a final, lackadaisical wave.

She watches, eyes blurring with tears, until he’s out of sight, and then she clutches the doll to herself for a moment, wipes her eyes, and sets about keeping everyone in the boat alive.


	7. Unfinished Drawings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is getting lonely. Crowley's been sleeping since May. Aziraphale heads over to his flat, intending to wake him up, and then makes an interesting discovery.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale understands why Crowley wanted to nap until October. He does. He really does. He understands that the world is equatable to a garbage can on fire at the moment. He knows that it’s overwhelming and messy and unpleasant and the dear boy  _ deserves _ a months-long nap, really he does, but Aziraphale is sick and tired of baking and sick and tired of re-reading books and sick and tired of  _ not having Crowley around _ .

Which is why he’s here, in Crowley’s flat,  _ technically _ without permission, but what was it Crowley had said after the Apocawasn’t that had been so overwhelmingly lovely?

“ _ Mi casa es su casa, angel. Come over anytime. _ ”

Ah, yes. That was it.

So he’s not  _ really _ here without permission. Sure, Crowley might not have meant to come over when he was sleeping. But  _ anytime _ means any time, and Aziraphale is here and he refuses to apologize.

Well, he might. Later. When he sees Crowley. But that’s not the  _ point _ .

“My dear boy, are you in here?”

He’s a bit intimidated by the stark walls and empty majesticness of the flat, to be honest, but he feels a little more at home in the plant room. He spends a lovely few minutes complimenting the flora on their breathtaking beauty, but gets distracted when he hears a low rumble coming from down the hall. With a last “you’re growing  _ beautifully _ , darlings” he invites himself to take a walk down said hall to investigate the noise.

When he sees Crowley he stops, stock-still, in the doorway.

He’s sprawled out on top of the expensive-looking blankets, hair long and bright red against the black of his satin pillowcases. His mouth is open and he’s snoring, a rumbly sound, and Aziraphale’s heart is doing something very strange and melty in his chest. 

Suddenly, convincing Crowley to spend time with him seems a lot less important.

He’s not sure how long he spends in the doorway, feeling fond and soft, but it’s a substantial amount of time, because when he finally shakes himself out of the trance and takes himself out of Crowley’s apartment the shadows have grown very long indeed. 

Oh, he can’t go home now! 

(He could. He doesn't want to.)

So he heads back inside Crowley’s apartment and sets about making tea and having a good snoop. He feels a little guilty, but convinces himself that this is mischief and Crowley would be proud to have influenced an angel towards The Dark Side and so opening drawers and investigating the contents is okay.

Plus, he’s curious.

Mostly the drawers are empty, which is very discouraging, and the here-and-there snake-related knicknacks aren’t enough to keep Aziraphale motivated. He’s just decided to give up when he stumbles upon a treasure trove in the form of a cabinet in what seems to be Crowley’s office. 

It’s a sketchbook. 

He starts to open it and then gets squeamish and leaves it on top of the cabinet while he goes to make his tea.

This is different than a good old-fashioned snoop. This is… this is personal. And private. And something Crowley chose to hide away. It would be  _ horrible _ of him to go look at whatever is in that sketchbook. 

He’s never been a very good angel.

He takes his tea with him and settles down onto the floor, picking up the sketchbook and holding it reverently for a moment.

And then he opens it.

The very first page takes his breath away. It’s  _ him _ .

It’s him, Aziraphale, in the silly white robes he was wearing when he was on apple tree duty. He stares, astonished at the skill, tracing a finger over the lines. It is  _ beautiful _ . He had no idea that Crowley could draw like this. The demon has used charcoal, but somehow managed to get as much accurate detail as any photograph. 

He can’t seem to tear his eyes away, wondering what it means that he looks so impressive in it, so noble, but eventually he finds himself wondering what’s on the next page. 

_ That _ punches the breath out of him, too.

They’re all drawings of him, he finds, as he turns the pages. Him in Mesopotamia, him in the ridiculous clothing of a British aristocrat in 1973 France, him smiling over the rim of a wine glass.

They’re beautiful. They’re amazing. They’re  _ incredible _ . He can’t believe that they exist. 

He turns the pages slowly, drinking in Crowley’s art. It’s strange, to be seeing himself through the demon’s eyes. He’s… better, somehow, than he thinks he really is. Glorious. Beautiful, even.

Silly old snake.

He takes his time, savouring each picture, but at last he comes to the final page, on which is drawn…

_ Oh, my _ , he thinks.

There he is, dressed in his usual getup, bowtie and all. He has his arm around someone’s waist, and is beaming at them in a way that looks decidedly besotted. The person beside him… well, there’s no face. It’s unfinished. But the lanky limbs, the practiced slouch… it’s Crowley.

His heart leaps in his chest.

_ The dear boy _ , he thinks, closing the sketchbook and sliding it lovingly back into the drawer.  _ The ridiculous, dearest, most beloved demon. _

He is so overcome by emotion that when he stands up he leaves his tea sitting on the floor. He pads down the hall to Crowley’s room.

Crowley is still snoring. 

Aziraphale wrings his hands, unsure of what to do.

“... Crowley?” he says quietly.

Crowley gives a snuffling grumble, flops over onto his stomach.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, more insistent.

“Mmmchghal,” Crowley mumbles into his pillow.

“Crowley!” says Aziraphale, and Crowley is suddenly sitting upright, having turned over and done something strange with his spine.

“Angel?” he asks, sounding very bleary and very surprised. Aziraphale’s insides feel bright and warm. 

“I found your sketchbook, dearest,” he whispers, afraid of Crowley’s reaction but unable to keep from saying it.

Ten thousand emotions fly across Crowley’s face at once, and then he falls backwards onto the pillow. 

“C’mere,” he says.

“I - my dear - ”

Crowley sits up again. 

“Come  _ here _ ,” he says, so demandingly that Aziraphale considers  _ not _ going over, just to make a point. 

But it’s Crowley, and he’s looking so sweet with his hair all mussed like that.

He makes his way to the side of the bed. 

“Lie down,” says Crowley, whose eyes have closed again. He sounds like he’s falling back asleep. 

“I - ” begins Aziraphale.

“Please?” says Crowley, and his eyes are open again and up close Aziraphale can tell that he’s nervous, that he’s overwhelmed, that he’s  _ scared _ of Aziraphale leaving.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale, and removes his shoes and socks. And coat. And bowtie. And trousers. And waistcoat. 

And then he’s climbing into Crowley’s bed in nothing but his undershirt and shorts, feeling quite scandalous indeed. 

No sooner has he gotten himself situated than Crowley is wrapping himself around him, arms and legs tangling with his own, head tucked into Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” gasps Aziraphale. “I - ” 

“Not good?” asks Crowley, trying desperately to sound casual and failing spectacularly.

“ _ Very _ good,” says Aziraphale, and extricates his arms so he can wrap his own around Crowley. 

Crowley makes a noise that is shaky and quiet and decidedly overwhelmed, but burrows in closer. 

They lie like that for a moment, and Crowley’s breathing starts to even out.

“Oughtn’t we to… talk, or something?” asks Aziraphale presently, because it  _ can’t _ be as easy as this.

Crowley makes an sleepy annoyed noise.

“Yeah, s’pose we ought,” he says. “But ‘m too tired right now. Later.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. Crowley, despite his firm words, tenses up, nervous.

“Unless,” he starts nervously, “if you wanted to - ”

“No, darling,” says Aziraphale. Crowley squeaks at the epithet. “This is lovely.”

Crowley relaxes, and Aziraphale does, too, and within minutes Crowley is snoring gently in his ear again. Aziraphale closes his eyes and listens and, for the first time in his life, falls asleep.


	8. Soulmate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yeah so I'm unable to write love confessions with Crowley bawling his eyes out. Whoops.

Crowley took a long time to realize Aziraphale was his soulmate. 

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d met him. Crowley hadn’t heard any of the lore at that point, probably because he hadn’t spent any more time than was necessary in Hell. All he knew was that the angel had beautiful eyes and lovely wings and a heart that prioritized a pregnant couple’s wellbeing over his own. 

And that was more than enough.

It wasn’t even when he first heard the chatter about soulmates.

He’d gotten himself discorporated. Hung around Sodom just a little too long. (He’d been _so_ sure he could convince - well, it doesn’t matter now.) And while he was waiting for his new body, he’d had nothing better to do than hang around and listen to the other lowlifes discussing the latest news, which was that apparently every demon had an angelic counterpart that was their soulmate. (When Crowley asked why the Almighty would give demons angelic soulmates when they could never really be together, the consensus was that it was all a big joke. That was when Crowley first started feeling bitter at Her for creating soulmates.) Also, continued his hellish colleagues, when demons were in close physical proximity to their soulmate their black-and-white vision would burst into colour, but the angel would remain unaffected.

And Crowley, being an idiot, thought _huh, weird,_ instead of _when I was around Aziraphale I noticed his eyes were blue._

No, Crowley didn’t put two and two together for a very long time. This was mostly because somewhere between being told about soulmates and being given his new body he’d managed to convince himself that it was all a big misunderstanding. Soulmates weren’t real. How silly! No, they were probably invented by some poor sod who was missing being an angel and thought to comfort himself with a daydream. (Crowley had not yet realized that ‘imagination’ was not very popular in Hell.) And then, shortly after Golgotha, he and Aziraphale were drinking in a tavern somewhere and he absentmindedly remarked on the bright red of a piece of pottery and then it struck him like a bolt of lightning. 

_Oh **no**_ , he thought.

He spent a while trying to avoid Aziraphale and the many difficult feelings that arose when he was around Aziraphale, because it was all so much to handle. But the longer he spent away from his angel the more miserable he felt and the more bleary and unbearable his black-and-white existence became and when Aziraphale turned up in a bar in Rome he found himself unable to say no to oysters.

After that, Crowley accepted his fate. He was in love with Aziraphale. Aziraphale was his soulmate. He would never be able to tell Aziraphale about either of these things, because Aziraphale was an angel and he was a demon and angels and demons weren’t allowed to… well. Do the things Crowley would like to do.

*

And life goes on like this, with Crowley loving Aziraphale as quietly as he can and having his heart broken every few years and screaming drunkenly at God about how the soulmate joke _isn’t funny_ , until the Apocalypse. Which doesn’t actually happen.

After he and Aziraphale go to the Ritz, they retire to the bookshop for a good old-fashioned nightcap. They drink and drink and drink until they’re both thoroughly smashed, and that is when it happens.

“Why’s your corporation so faulty?” Aziraphale asks, apropos of nothing.

“Wha?” Crowley asks, understandably confused.

“The - the - the - ” Aziraphale waves his wine glass around and makes a variety of expressions while he wracks his brain for the right words - “The colours.” 

“What about the colours?” asks Crowley, whose stomach has gone very cold. He feels very sober very suddenly. 

“They’re….” Aziraphale squints as he thinks very hard. “They don’t happen.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, relieved. “Nah, can’t see colours. Lost that when I - you know.”

“I’m terribly sorry, dear boy,” says Aziraphale, looking less drunk. Crowley looks at the wine bottles, which are less empty than they were a moment ago. Looks like they both accidentally sobered up a little.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Crowley, trying to shrug and discreetly sober the rest of the way up at the same time. 

“But not all the time,” says Aziraphale, pointing a finger at Crowley. 

_Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no._

“Uh,” says Crowley.

“When your corporation was near my corporation,” continues Aziraphale, oblivious to the panic which is rapidly taking over Crowley’s brain, “colours happened.”

“Ah,” says Crowley. “Mm,” says Crowley. “Ngk,” says Crowley.

“Why?” asks Aziraphale again.

Crowley hems and haws and hedges until Aziraphale starts to get annoyed and says, “really, my dear, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. It’s not as if you could say anything that would make me like you any less. I wish you’d just tell me.”

Undone by the ‘my dear’ and the ‘nothing would make me like you any less,’ Crowley does. 

Aziraphale sits very still. Crowley sits still, too, tense and nervous and full of regrets. What a pathetic excuse of a demon he is. In love with an angel. Unable to let go of said angel, even when he knew it wouldn’t work out, wouldn’t lead to anything but pain for him and awkwardness of Aziraphale. Refusing to let go of - 

“Soulmates?” says Aziraphale, very softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes Crowley’s foolish heart leap. 

“Er, yeah. ‘S - dunno what She was thinking. That it was good for a laugh, probably. Watching me - uh, I mean us - I mean, demons, you know - when we couldn’t have what we - uh - dunno. Weird. Silly. ‘S silly, isn’t it? Sorry.”

“No,” breathes Aziraphale, and Crowley’s heart climbs higher. Stupid organ oughta know that the higher you are the more the fall hurts. “No, my dear, my _very_ dear, my most beloved - oh, _no._ Not silly.”

Crowley’s brain cannot be expected to handle both _very dear_ and _most beloved_ at the same time. 

“Yungrhwha?”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and he’s beaming, he’s shining, he’s radiating… something, something that Crowley is scared to think about, scared to hope for - “Crowley, you’ve waited _so long_ for me.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything. He’s blushing and painfully aware of how pitiful he is and unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Crowley, my darling,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley can’t breathe, “ _I love you_.”

Crowley lets out a sob at that, a harsh, punched-out sound. He didn’t mean to. It just happened.

“ _Beloved_ ,” says Aziraphale tenderly, and reaches out and pulls Crowley into a soft, tight, warm embrace. Crowley cries harder and grasps at the fabric of Aziraphale’s jacket. “I love you,” Aziraphale says again, and Crowley doesn’t know how to do this. “I love you more than I will ever be able to say. I’ve loved you for millenia. I never knew - ” Aziraphale’s voice trembles. “ _Soulmates_ ,” he says at length, full of awe. “We’re soulmates, Crowley. We were - darling, we were made for each other. _She_ made us for each other. I’m yours, lover of mine. I always have been. I always will be.”

“‘Ziraphale,” gasps Crowley, overcome. He’s reasonably sure that demons were not meant to hold this much happiness. “Angel - _**angel**_ \- ”

“Shh,” croons Aziraphale, clutching him impossibly tighter and rocking back and forth. “I know, my heart. I know. You gorgeous, brilliant, impossibly sweet thing. You’ve been telling me as long as we’ve known each other. I know.”

It takes Crowley a long time to calm down, to start breathing normally again, to stop hanging onto Aziraphale like the angel will float away if he so much as loosens his grip. Aziraphale murmurs comforting, devastatingly lovely things the whole time. 

“Love you,” says Crowley, as soon as he’s found his voice again. It’s croaky and hoarse. He doesn’t care. “Love you. Love you, love you, love you.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” says Aziraphale, sounding like he might cry, “I love you, too.” 

And they sit there, holding each other, for most of the night. Crowley’s breathing evens out completely. He gets a crick in his neck but doesn’t budge an inch, unwilling to risk anything when he’s just gotten everything he’s ever wanted. “Soulmates,” Aziraphale says wonderingly, every so often.

Crowley falls asleep thinking that he’s not mad at the Almighty for making soulmates. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, friends!!!


End file.
